


La Douleur Exquise

by WritingQuill



Series: Meanings [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Sherlock makes himself sad, Snogging, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>La Douleur Exquise (French): the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have</p><p>Sherlock loves John and John loves Sherlock, but they are both idiots, so they don't realise it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Douleur Exquise

**La Douleur Exquise** (French): _the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have_

***

The light drizzle was cold and infuriating as it wormed its way through clothing. Wool coats, as it seemed, were of no use in such humid weather, becoming weighed down by water and losing all its warming properties. 

Sherlock Holmes glared his way through Marylebone Road, chastising himself for not taking a cab when he left St Pancras Station. He had just returned from a (regrettably dull) case in Paris — courtesy of Mycroft, for whom Sherlock would not be doing any favours in the near future — which he had to solve by himself because John had said that the needed to work. As if anything were more important than The Work. Sherlock had scoffed and they had had a row. Eventually, Sherlock had rolled his eyes and agreed that John would stay, even though it would make everything interminably boring. And it did. Somehow John’s absence rendered the whole thing utterly dull, as Sherlock had no-one to talk to (or at) and no-one to praise his amazing deductions. In the end, it ended up being one of those old money laundering schemes that turned out to be as simple as a common household domestic-turned-murder. It would have been more fun had John been there. Sherlock sighed. 

He knew that the fun in the danger was only a part of why he wanted John around. He knew and he had come around and got over it. Well, as over as someone as obsessive as Sherlock could get, really. Especially as John was there all the time, making it impossible for him to be deleted. Thing was, Sherlock didn’t really want to delete John. He wanted him there, even as just friends. 

John was endlessly interesting, and Sherlock wanted nothing but to peel his layers away, see what this extraordinarily ordinary ex-army doctor was made of, because there was so much _more_ than what met the eye! John was a case Sherlock never managed to solve — every time he thought he had puzzled John out, something changed everything. He smiled in a way that shifted the whole profile. The way he moved, the way he talked, his stance, his touches that could be soft, rough, angry and gentle. He was so interesting, it kept the boredom away. Mostly, anyway. 

Sherlock opened the door of 221. Mrs Hudson wasn’t home today, probably not for two days. He could tell by the state of the plant she insisted on keeping on the foyer and the amount of dust that had gathered on top of her welcoming mat. He made his way upstairs and noticed that John wasn’t home either. Odd. Probably working. At least he had better be, since that had been the reason he let Sherlock go to Paris by himself. 

Removing his sodden coat, scarf and shoes, Sherlock made his way into his bedroom to change into his pyjamas and dressing gown. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but he felt uncomfortable in humid clothes. 

After changing and drying his hair, Sherlock moved to the sitting room and threw himself on the sofa, halting immediately after realising the smell that covered it. It was John. But not only John. There was something else, something that didn’t belong to 221b. It was sweet ( _nauseating_ ) and a bit citric. He stood up to study the sofa further. On the right arm there was a soft indentation mark. Possibly fingernails, long. Scrapes near the foot, conjecture suggested high heels. It all pointed to the picture of John bringing a _woman_ into the flat and kissing — no, not kissing, _snogging_ her on the sofa. What did they do afterwards? Sherlock needed to know! Did it end there or did they move to his bedroom? Did they stop halfway up the stairs because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other? Did she remove his shirt and kiss his chest, leaving lipstick marks? Did he lick her? Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed the balls of his hands on them. He needed to forget this, the image was too much. He could see it in his mind’s eye: John and a faceless woman (shorter than him, medium-length brown hair, slight curves, plain and pale, his usual type) kissing passionately, John’s fingers going through her hair, nipping down her throat — she moaned his name loudly and he did it again — and biting her earlobe lightly. She scratched his back with her manicured fingernails and he winched with a smirk, lifting her up while she wrapped her legs around his waist. 

Sherlock groaned and sighed, making his way to his chair. He _needed_ to forget about this. These ridiculous _feelings_ he had for John were futile, never to be reciprocated, especially given the evidence that John did indeed bring females home with him in order to engage in sexual intercourse. Besides, Sherlock was only interested in his mind anyway, no use feeling jealous about it. He didn’t want John physically. 

Right? 

Yes, of course, that was absurd. He didn’t have time for such nonsense. His body was transport and that was it. Nothing more. He didn’t care about John’s hands. Or his hair. Or how his hair would feel on _Sherlock_ ’s hands. Or what his skin tasted like, how his voice sounded when— No! Ridiculous. Pointless. Puerile. Utterly preposterous and ludicrous. 

He would delete this whole business right now. Yes, good. 

With a strange — and somewhat painful — pang on his chest, Sherlock stood up and went to the kitchen because there was a special experiment involving maggots and cow ears that he’d been putting off for ages but now were of utmost importance given the circumstances. 

When John got home three hours later smelling faintly of tea and anti-septic, Sherlock didn’t even look up. 

* 

It was his second date with Denise. She was a lovely girl, an inch taller than him, very pale with dark curls. He tried not to look too much into that, though. Ella would have a field day. 

She had called him for a second date the day after Sherlock left for Paris. John had been upset not to go, but he really needed this job. And now at least he had something to do. 

They’d agreed to meet the day after for drinks and then go out for dinner. She looked lovely when she walked into the bar, wearing a grey dress and blue high heels. 

Dinner was all right, if a bit boring. But boring sometimes was good. Except that he was really, really bored. Being alone in that flat was excruciating, especially when he knew Sherlock was probably running through the streets of Paris with those impossibly long legs of his, making amazing deductions and being generally brilliant, and John was stuck in boring old England, which seemed a lot greyer than usual. 

As she talked about her job — psychologist? Or was she the teacher? John could not remember, he wasn’t really paying attention. John nodded and smiled and hummed at the right times. He tried to talk about his work, but it wasn’t much, really. And apparently Sherlock’s and his escapades weren’t interesting to her. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit too dangerous?’ she had said on their first date. But she was so attractive and he felt so lonely, so their second date had basically been her doing the talking while he counted the minutes til he could go home. 

Except she went along with him. It had been a few months since he had managed to get a woman to have sex with him, so it was a bit surreal. They arrived at 221b and she smiled teasingly at him. He shivered and his body took over for his brain. They snogged on the sofa for a long time. She smelt sweet and a bit lemon-y, which made him uncomfortable. John was never a fan of sweet scents. He preferred bitter, like anti-septic, formaldehyde and expensive col—no, this was good, kissing her was good. She kissed down his throat and ran her hand through his torso. John sighed and winced as she scratched his stomach with her nails. Sharp nails. He hoped it wouldn’t bleed. They kissed again and she was trying to feel him up in his general groin area, but nothing. He wasn’t aroused at all but his and he couldn’t fathom why. Apparently his body hadn’t actually taken over, and he couldn’t get out of his brain. All he could think of was how Sherlock would know that there had been a woman here, that they had done this on the sofa. He winced because the thought of Sherlock immediately made him flush and she mistook it for arousal. He needed to stop this. Now. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pushing her away slightly. ‘I can’t… do this.’ 

‘Why not?’ she asked, sounding put-off. Her pupils were dilated and her hair dishevelled. This would have been so stimulating a few months ago, but now all he could think of as he looked at her curls and nose and legs was how much he wished it were someone else’s and this was all very very wrong. 

John let her down easy, but he could tell he’d never hear from her again. With a sigh, John went to the toilet to wash up. He was disappointed at himself. Thinking about Sherlock whilst trying to get off with a very attractive woman was more than a Bit Not Good. God, what did he get himself into? Was that why he couldn’t get dates anymore? If all he could think about was Sherlock and it was obvious that Sherlock would never be attracted to/want to be with him, John would have to accept that he was going to lead a very lonely, very celibate life from now on. 

_But at least I’ll be with Sherlock, for as long as he’ll have me_ , he thought. 

Being in love with your self-diagnosed sociopath, possibly asexual and definitely not-interested flatmate was certainly not a good plan. Sadly, there was nothing to be done now, so John made himself a cuppa and went to his bedroom for some much-deserved self-pitying sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Took me ages to get this one finished, strangely enough, and I should be writing an essay right now! Anyway, I hope you like it, and comments are always appreciated! (I might even give you a cookie, you can't have a way of knowing for sure)


End file.
